


Let Love be Your Strength

by dragonwriter24cmf



Category: Charmed (TV 2018)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Bonding, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Introspection, POV Alternating, Quotations, Spoilers, Team Bonding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-15
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22272640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonwriter24cmf/pseuds/dragonwriter24cmf
Summary: What was Maggie thinking when she and Harry were trapped in Tartarus? What was Harry thinking afterward?
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Let Love be Your Strength

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: All characters belong to the creators of Charmed, and those who revived the series.

**Let Love Be Your Strength**

_ Let love be your strength. _

She hears Harry say those words, and all she can think of is Parker. Parker with his smiles and his flirting and his gentleness. Parker with his warmth and his laughter and his respect.

Parker, the half-demon whose family will destroy hers, who helped steal the Scythe of Tartarus, whose brother tried to kill them all while pretending to be Macy. Parker, who lied to her the whole time about who he was and what he was after.

Parker, who helped send his own brother to Tartarus to save them. Who’s dying of his demon blood.

It’s confusing and it hurts and just thinking the name brings back all the feelings of betrayal.

Thinking of her sisters is no better. She loves them, but...it’s such a tangled mess. Mom’s death, Macy’s appearance, going from one sister to two, becoming witches. Powers that were activated on the death of their mother, and a sister who came to them when they were mourning a devastating loss.

Powers, like her empathy. Which didn’t tell her the truth of Parker, of who and what he was. Powers that can’t seem to protect any of them from heartbreak. Powers that might as well be useless for all the good they do her.

Powers, Parker. Sister, Mother. A tangled web of grief and loss and hurt. She doesn’t need the stings of the memory-scorpions to bring it all to the surface, all the worse for the numbing spell she previously allowed herself to indulge in.

She can’t stop the child-like wail that escapes her. “I can’t.”

_ Then take strength from me, and know you will never be alone.  _

Harry is a rock in a storm of anguish. She tries to cling to his voice, but the memory scorpions are there, and she fears their poison. So much. She’s so frightened, and she can’t handle any more grief, any more pain, on top of the flood she’s already being overwhelmed by.

And then Harry speaks again. Strong, defiant, even though he’s been in this Hell, suffering and enduring, for far longer than she has. “Let me take her pain. Give me the memory.” A bitter, sharp laugh. “Come on, you overgrown lizard. Torture me, I dare you.”

And she wants to shout out a refusal, to deny his words, but the dark laughter silences her. Dark laughter and the sight of the memory-scorpions flooding out of the walls. The thought of being stung by all of them renders her mute with fear. Then with horror, as they all flood through a crack in the wall toward the sound of Harry’s voice.

_ Be careful what you ask for. _ The dragon’s mocking voice growls through her prison, and through Harry’s as well. And suddenly, she realizes what it means. What it  **really** means.

All those scorpions – they’re going to sting him. She doesn’t know what his worst memories might be. At the very least, she knows he lost a charge once before, to madness and suicide. But he’s been a Whitelighter for so long...what other memories does he have that might cause him pain?

She knows, with an awful sense of intuition, with every fiber of her returning gifts, that having invited this fate, he will not shrink from whatever torment might await him. Whatever pain he has accepted on her behalf he will endure, regardless of his own suffering.

A short, sharp cry rings out, an echo of her thoughts, and she knows what it is. It’s begun. Harry’s torture, taken from her shoulders to his. Her Whitelighter, offering himself for her, taking her place, the sacrifice for her sanity.

She hears him cry out again, this time in despair, and wonders what he sees. She calls his name, trying to offer what little strength she can, but has no idea if he can hear her.

She thought nothing could be worse than her mother’s death, or Parker’s betrayal. She thought nothing could hurt worse than the gaping sense of loss she’s felt over the last few days, and earlier this year. But this…

Oh, this is worse. Listening to Harry’s cries as he suffers in her place – it’s so much worse.

He cries out in anguish, and she feels her heart break for him.

He groans in the agony of his memories, and she weeps bitter tears for his pain.

He screams with each new sting, each fresh round of his torture, and she longs to reach through the walls and take his pain away. Longs to reach out and take the burden of his suffering, as he has done for her.

She cries out to the dragon, wanting to reverse the decision, but Harry prevents her. In his lucid moments, he refuses her offer, and she curses the weakness that made her weaker than he, that allowed this bargain to be struck.

She curses her own foolishness, trying so hard not to feel that she got herself into this mess. Instead of saving him, she’s only made his plight worse.

Time means nothing in Tartarus, and she has no idea how long it lasts. Only that it ends, that she and Harry are dragged upward to the light, back to safety. Back to their world.

At last she can take his hand, put a shoulder under his arm and offer him some support. At last, she can embrace her Whitelighter, give him some comfort.

He looks terrible, the poison of Tartarus streaking his arms and up his throat, dirt and burns all over him. Worse still is the shadowed pain in his eyes, testament to the torment he has endured, the memories that haunt him as they stagger out of Tartarus.

They stagger into Mel and Macy’s waiting arms, and all she can think of is Harry, and how much he needs care. Needs them.

And then Alistair attacks, and she feels fear, and frustration, because what good is empathy in battle? And then Harry reaches out. Harry, battered and tortured and unable to stand – Harry, who has been brutalized by Tartarus – reaches out.

_ Let love be your strength. _

She thinks of her sisters, fighting for them against a being of incredible power. She thinks of love and family, and everything she nearly lost sight of while she was trying not to feel the pain of betrayal. 

She thinks of Harry, who has suffered almost beyond endurance, far beyond what he should have, all for her. And yet, he’s still fighting for them, though he has so little left to give.

Love is her strength. Her love for her sisters, her love for this man who has been her rock, her shield even in the worst of darkness. Her sisters’ love for her. Harry’s love for all of them. They are a family, no matter how battered and broken they are, how damaged and hurt they have been or will be.

They are a family, her two sisters and their Whitelighter, and she’s not going to let any stupid ‘Dark Master’ or ‘Duke of Malebranche’ or whatever destroy that. Bad enough his freakin’ spawn already almost did.

Love is her strength, and with the help of her sisters, it becomes a tangible weapon that drives Alistair away.

Love is her strength. And with Alistair gone, it’s what she uses to help her Whitelighter stand. And if she spends the entire walk home wrapping Harry in as much warmth and comfort as she can…

Well, it’s the least she can do.

*****LLBYS*****

_ Let love be your strength. _

He spoke those words, a mantra of encouragement for Maggie in the bowels of Tartarus. How ironic that love must now be his greatest weakness, the crack in his armor. The force he clung to has now become a hindrance to his position as a Whitelighter. Ironic, indeed. And yet, also inescapable.

Love. When all he had was his duties, his position as a Whitelighter, it was so easy to love his charges. But the torment of Tartarus, far more than the memories, is the knowledge. Forbidden knowledge, now ingrained into his mind, his heart, his very soul.

His son. His son, who lived, and still lives.

In a way, he thinks it would be easier if he had failed. If the child of his memories had died. He would have mourned, and he would have wept for all that was lost. But mourning can pass into quiet grief, and the scars of it can heal. He would have mourned, and gone about the world a little sadder with the knowledge, but...it might have been easier.

He still loves his charges. Maggie, Mel and Macy. Loves them deeply. And he is beyond grateful for what they have done for him, the lengths they went to to save him from Tartarus. Likewise, he is grateful for all Charity did, both in aiding them and in comforting him with the truth about his son.

And, despite what he knows Maggie fears, he does not blame her for his torment in Tartarus. He would have been tortured regardless, and he knew what he invited when he challenged the dragon. It was his choice, and he does not regret it, not for one second. Offered the choice a thousand times, and he would do the same thing every time, regardless of the cost.

Far worse, to have listened to Maggie’s suffering and done nothing. Father or Whitelighter, he could not have endured that, to listen to one who is in his care suffer.

And therein lies the problem. For now he remembers that he  _ was _ a father. A father who refused to let his son suffer and die. And he still is a father, for his son lives still. And that is the source of his dilemma. 

He is a father, and knowing that has awoken a need within him, a need so powerful he feels like it is splitting him in two. A need to see his son. To know he thrives. To find out if he has had a good life.

For that matter, he feels like he would condemn himself to Tartarus for eternity, if only he could know the boy’s  _ name _ . But even that is denied him. 

It’s agony. To know so much and yet so little. To know he didn’t fail, and yet, that he knows nothing about the child he gave his first life to save. He knows more about his current charges than he does about his own flesh and blood.

It breaks his heart to think he can no longer work with Maggie and Mel and Macy, no longer guide and aid them in their struggles. And yet, what use is he to them, torn as he is between old memories and current responsibilities? Tortured by his own restored memories, by a life lost and left unfinished?

In retrospect, perhaps he ought to have said something before attempting to orb himself and Mel across a town. He could have told her his powers were still unstable, without telling her all the reasons why. But in that moment of crisis, he is a Whitelighter, and his job is to reach his charges as quickly as possible. Except that...he fails.

And then he and Mel are in Manchester England, on the other side of an ocean, with no way home, because even if his mind was on Macy and Maggie and their emergency, his heart was yearning for his son.

Let love be his strength indeed. Right now, it’s his greatest weakness.

And yet...it isn’t. His heart might be tearing him in two different directions, but his is not the only heart here. Mel is with him. And in his anguish, he has forgotten. He loves his Charmed Ones, but they love him as well. They are family, by their own words.

And because Mel loves him, like a friend and a brother, she is willing to trust her siblings to handle things at home, while she aids him in his search. His search for a son whose name he does not even know.

It feels hopeless, but then, so much of their struggles have. And Mel, for all her occasional recklessness, is strong and wise in her own way. Wise enough to keep going, to guide him, even when he feels as though there is no point. And sure enough, her heart guides them true. To a church, to a record, and finally...to a name.

James Westwell. That’s who he was, when he was a human and a mortal and a not a Whitelighter. James Westwell, husband of Clara Westwell. Father of Carter Westwell, born and christened in 1954.

Carter Westwell. His son. Who still lives in Manchester, in a townhouse not far from the church they stand in.

There’s a roaring in his ears and his heart thumps like a drum being played in a rock band as Mel leads him up the street, past the neat houses and yards until they reach number 38.

Or rather, until they stop in front of number 32, mesmerized by the sight in front of them, of a tall, older man playing with two children.

Reality crashes into him like a wave. It’s been 60 years since he died and became a Whitelighter.

60 years. He hasn’t really noticed, unchanging as he is. He’s noted the passing of time, but never thought about what it meant. And in all these days thinking of the son he left behind, he never thought about the march of time.

60 years. The boy he remembers, the frightened and sickly four-year-old seeking reassurance from his father – that boy is long gone. His son is a man grown. Grown and with children of his own. And grandchildren, by the look of it.

And he? He hasn’t aged a day. If two outsiders were to see them together now, he would be mistaken for his own son’s son, rather than his father.

He’s missed his son’s entire life. He wasn’t there to see him graduate school. He doesn’t know what career his son chose, what path he pursued. Doesn’t know if he’s always been well-off, or if the townhouse and neat clothing are a result of his own hard work. He doesn’t know where Clara is, if she lives still or ever remarried. Or if she’s passed away.

He wasn’t there for his son’s wedding, doesn’t know the name of his daughter-in-law.

He doesn’t know the names of his grandchildren, or how many of them there are. He wasn’t there to see them born, to be the loving and playful grandfather his own son has become.

He doesn’t know the names of his great-grandchildren, or if he has more than two of them. He doesn’t know if they all live in Manchester, or if they’ve migrated to other places in England, or even other places in the world.

He knows...nothing. Nothing but a name, and the face of an old man, placed beside a faded memory of a child who needed his father, and whom his father loved more than anything else in the world.

Part of him yearns to take Mel’s suggestion, to step forward and introduce himself as a distant cousin. Pretend an interest in genealogy and ‘connecting’ led him here. He wants, so badly it hurts, to know everything he’s missed, everything he never had a chance to find out before now. The names of his family. Their birthdays, likes and dislikes, everything.

And yet...he can’t lie to them. It’s too difficult, and too painful. Even if he could lie, even if he could get away with it, he would know the truth, and it would tear him apart. It would poison everything they are, and everything they could build. And the truth...the truth is unthinkable. They could never believe him.

For all that it breaks his heart and rends his soul, James Westwell is dead. And it is far better to let him remain so, than try to resurrect his ghost or insert a poor copy into his son’s life. It was his dearest wish to know that his son thrived, and now he does.

His son is well. He is prosperous, happy. He has a family, and he clearly loves them, and they him. Carter has done well, and grown into a good man, one who no longer needs his father. Or his father’s shadow.

And besides, he has his charges. James Westwell is dead, but Harry Greenwood is alive, and has three adopted siblings, three beautiful and special young women, to be looking after.

Harry Greenwood has three young women he cherishes. And who cherish him, enough to rescue him from the bowels of hell, from Tartarus itself. Harry Greenwood has three women he would endure the torments of the damned to protect. And a beautiful woman who defied the rules of her Order to share his pain, to reassure and comfort, and even love him.

Love. Love was the strength that James Westwell used to save his son, and gave his life for.

Love is the strength that lets Harry Greenwood lay his past to rest.

Love is the strength that takes him – takes them – home. Home to Hilltowne and Maggie and Macy.

Love – it hurts. James Westwell is dead, and he left behind a life that any man would have loved to be part of. Harry Greenwood understands that he has to let go, but still…

Love is strength. And it is Mel’s love, Mel’s strength, that holds him as he mourns. Mourns a life unlived, a past untouched, a family and a part of his heart left behind.

Love holds him as he mourns the death of James Westwell, loving father, and all that he missed.

Love comforts him through his sobs and dries his tears when his weeping is done. Love lets him cry without shame, and find peace in mourning what has been lost.

Love is the cup of tea and the soft touch that Maggie gives him when they finally go inside.

Love is the kind smile and the warm blanket that Macy provides.

Love leads him to stand behind Mel the next day as she lets go of her own ghosts, her own past and her own might-have-beens.

Love is the cup of coffee that Mel and Maggie give Macy the next morning, as three sisters affirm their bond. Bound by the love of a mother, cemented in the bonds of sibling love and care. A bond that includes him as well.

_ Let love be your strength. _

Love. Strength. Weakness. A bond that can defeat any darkness, that can cause unimaginable pain, but also unfathomable joy. A double-edged sword. Their most powerful weapon and their greatest strength. And now his as well, all the richer and deeper for the edge of mourning that now tinges it. For the depth of love is often measured in sacrifice, and it is a price they have all paid.

_ Let love be your strength. _

They will.

**Author's Note:**

> This got stuck in my head after watching those episodes, and I couldn't NOT write it.


End file.
